


the rhythm of the night

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: tumblr fics & ficlets. [109]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bisexual Female Character, Consensual Underage Sex, Explicit Consent, F/F, Femslash Big Bang Monthly Challenge, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Making Out, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10411254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: This isn’t something that she’s ever really fantasized about, not in any real detail; on the rare occasions when Archie wasn’t the star of her inner mind’s show, the girls that floated into her head were always anonymous, composed of ever-changing facial features that were usually hidden beneath a thick layer of hair or buried between her legs.She has a feeling that, if things keep going the way they are, the girl in her fantasies is going to have a very familiar face.Or: the one where Betty and Veronica share a bed at a sleepover and share their second kiss (and then some).





	

**Author's Note:**

> written for the Femslash Big Bang March Monthly Challenge, where the prompt was 'fantasies.' also written for the following prompt from the [Riverdale Kink Meme](https://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/): 
> 
> "Betty/Veronica- Frottage during a sleepover. All the other girls are sleeping, but Betty and Veronica start making out and it goes a little too far. Some gay panic from Betty's part would be nice."
> 
> set in a canon divergence where Jason didn't die, but everything else is the same. the sexual contact in this is underage, but consensual. title from [Of The Night](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZCTDKLjdok4) by Bastille. huge thanks to [Babs](http://jonnsansa.tumblr.com/) for betaing!

If anyone ever asked Betty Cooper to willingly spend a night in Thornhill, she would have shut them down immediately. 

Even if you put aside the fact that it’s inhabited by the Blossom family (who, despite their name, are never warmer than ice, who seem only to feel emotions like delight and joy when they’re at someone else’s expense), the place was just _creepy_ , like the set of a black and white horror film, the kind where women were imprisoned in dungeons by leering men with shadows twelve feet high. Betty had only ever been there a handful of times as a child, on the few occasions where she’d been invited to one of Cheryl and Jason’s joint birthday parties. 

Even at the height of summer, the grounds always remained shady, full of deep patches of darkness that looked like they could swallow you whole if you wandered into them. The sprawling house itself wasn’t much better; outside of whatever area was being used for the party, it was quiet enough to hear your own heartbeat. When she traversed the halls on the way to the bathroom, Betty swore that the shadows moved, skipped from one side of the hall to the other, slipped underneath doors that probably hadn’t been opened in decades. When they went towards the back of the property, as they occasionally did on one of Cheryl’s whims, the Blossom cemetery was a constant presence, always silent, the tombstones and monuments rising from the ground like cracked teeth. 

She had no idea how Jason and Cheryl could sleep in that house night after night, with the looming specter of death in the backyard and the silent, darkened hallways. Just being in it in the daylight was enough to give Betty nightmares. 

The year they turned twelve, Cheryl stopped inviting Betty to her birthday parties and, frankly, Betty wasn’t that bothered, because she assumed that it meant meant she’d never have to set foot in Thornhill again.

But that was before she joined the River Vixens (or, rather, before Veronica got her onto the squad) and discovered that, so long as Cheryl Blossom was cheer captain, one of the team’s mandatory bonding activities was a sleepover at Thornhill. 

She doesn’t tell her mother about it; she’s still livid that Betty is a River Vixen at all, and telling her about the sleepover is bound to make her completely blow her top. But she tries to come up with some solid excuses she can feed to Cheryl, anything to get out of the sleepover. 

She settles on one that she thinks is particularly believable, with a back-up excuse in case that one falls through, but when she approaches Cheryl in the locker room after practice, she doesn’t get any further than the first word of her first excuse. 

“Be at Thornhill at six sharp or you’re off the squad. No exceptions!” With that, she saunters off, leaving Betty agape, excuse still trapped in her throat. Before she can move, Veronica pops up at her side and slings one arm, still damp from the showers, around Betty’s shoulders. 

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” she says. “I mean, I know the place has a whole House on Haunted Hill vibe to it, but I don’t think Cheryl would invite us all there to kill us.” 

“If my mom finds out I’m there, she’ll kill _me_ ,” Betty sighs, reluctantly ducking away from Veronica’s arm and turning to her locker. 

“Well, I’m guessing you came up with half a dozen excuses to give to Cheryl for skipping her sleepover,” Veronica says, leaning against the locker beside Betty’s. “Just come up with another one for your mom. Tell her you’re working on a project with Kevin. Would she believe that?” Her long, dark hair is cascading over her shoulders, and Betty can smell her shampoo and perfume, coconut and roses, mingling together. There are a few errant water droplets clinging to her collarbone, just above the scoop neck of her dress, and Betty forces herself to look into her locker, cheeks burning of their own accord. 

“She might,” she replies, grabbing a towel. “He’d definitely cover for me.”

“Well then, it’s settled,” Veronica says with a grin. “I’ll go talk to him while you shower. If he’s game, I’ll pick you up from his place around five. Better to be early than late, unless we want to send Cheryl off into a megalomaniac spiral before the first game of the season.”

“I think that can wait until at least the fifth game,” Betty says. Veronica laughs, the sound genuine and warm, and for a moment, she leans in closer, so close that Betty thinks Veronica is going to kiss her cheek. 

She doesn’t. But Betty still feels the warmth from her mouth all the same.

&.

On the way to Thornhill, Betty tries not to think about her childhood impressions of the place. She tries to tell herself that it’s just an old mansion, no creepier than her own home or Archie’s. It’s just unfamiliar; it was only her slightly overactive imagination that turned the place into a modern-day version of the House of Usher.

She’s able to hold onto that rationale for as long as the sun is up, for as long as the whole squad is gathered together in Cheryl’s room, making noise, eating popcorn, watching movies and having a surprising amount of fun, with only a minimal amount of cattiness.

But as soon as night comes, as soon as the partying winds down, that rationale flies right out the window. 

Thornhill at night is just as terrifying as she always thought it would be. 

She doesn’t think that it would be as horrible if she was in Cheryl’s room, where she’d at least be able to hear the other girls breathing, or shifting in their sleeping bags, or whispering and giggling quietly. But, expansive as Cheryl’s bedroom is, it isn’t quite large enough to fit all of them, and when Cheryl proclaimed that, her eyes had locked onto Betty’s, and the hint of a sharp smirk ghosted past her red lips. The message was loud and clear, but before Betty could respond, Veronica jumped to her feet. 

“We'll take the spare room,” she said, extending her hand to Betty and pulling her up as well. “Just tell us where to go.” 

The room turned out to be behind one of those doors Betty dreaded as a child, one of the rooms that was closed up for months, maybe even years. She supposes that couldn’t be the exact case; the servants must go in every so often to dust, but the air is still stuffy, stale, like the inside of Betty’s attic during the dead of summer. It was smaller than Cheryl’s room, and the windows were covered with heavy, burgundy velvet curtains that stretched from the ceiling to the floor. Even when Veronica had tugged them open with a practiced flourish that spoke to years of doing exactly that in other grand residences, no extra light came into the room, the moonlight strangled by thick cloud cover.

The bed was four-poster with a canopy and an ornately carved headboard. Betty practically had to jump to get into it and, for a fraction of a moment, she’d allowed herself to indulge a childhood fantasy, a fantasy of being a queen who lived in a giant castle alongside her doting, dutiful king. 

(In those fantasies, innocent as they were, it had always been Archie’s face on the king’s body.)

“You know, I think everyone else got the short end of the stick,” Veronica said, jumping up onto the bed and flopping back against the cushy mattress. “This is way better than a sleeping bag.” 

“Definitely,” Betty replied, managing to get under the heavy, multiple layers of bedding after some effort. She waited until Veronica was under the covers as well before she leaned over and twisted the switch on the antique lamp resting on the nightstand. 

As soon as the room plunges into darkness, all her old fears about Thornhill come rushing right back. 

She can hear Veronica breathing beside her, but it’s not enough to split through the oppressive quiet. She always expects houses this old to make strange sounds, to creak and moan as they shift on their foundation. That would still be creepy, but at least there’d be _some_ kind of noise. In the near-silence, Betty feels like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, like she’s stuck in that moment in a horror movie where everything goes quiet before the music blares and something leaps out of the darkness. 

Just thinking about it makes her heart skip. 

“God, this place is like a tomb,” Veronica says softly. The sudden sound of her voice makes Betty jump. “How the hell do Jason and Cheryl sleep here every night?” 

“I’ve been wondering that since I was a kid,” Betty replies, turning onto her side to face Veronica. The room is so dark that she can’t see anything more than the faintest of outlines, but she can feel Veronica’s body heat radiating across the mattress. She’s closer than Betty expected her to be, given the sheer size of the bed, but she makes no attempt to further the distance between them. It’s comforting, being able to _feel_ that there’s someone else in the room, someone that she knows and trusts. “This place always gave me nightmares when I was younger.” 

“You and half the town, probably,” Veronica says with an exaggerated shudder. “I wonder how many bodies are stashed in the walls.” 

“I _really_ didn’t need that mental image,” Betty groans. The sound of shuffling comes from Veronica’s side of the bed, and after a few seconds, the glow from her phone splits the darkness. The contrast is so jarring that Betty winces and shoves her face into an overstuffed pillow. 

“Sorry,” Veronica apologizes, sitting up and spinning around so that her body blocks most of the light. “Just give me a second.” After a few moments, soft music starts playing from her phone, something acoustic, and the room goes dark again as she sets her phone on the other nightstand. When she settles back down with a rustle of blankets, she’s even closer to Betty, close enough for their legs to bump together. “Is that any better?” 

“It is, actually.” The lack of any light is still disconcerting, but at least the music gives her something to focus on, relieves some of the oppressive silence that otherwise fills the room. The person singing has a soothing voice, and while she’s sure that, knowing Veronica’s wide and varied taste in music, the song is bound to change to something a little more upbeat sooner rather than later, she genuinely feels like she could fall asleep. 

But just as she gets herself comfortable, manages to find a spot in the mattress where she sinks in perfectly, Veronica’s fingers brush against the curve of her elbow.

As a touch, it’s really no firmer than the flap of butterfly wings against Betty’s skin, but it seems to resonate outward like ripples in a pond. Her skin actually _tingles_ , in a way that’s not entirely foreign; she’s felt it before, on the few occasions that Archie got closer to her than usual, when their bare shoulders bumped together when they were at the beach, when his hands touched hers when she passed him a pen during class. 

“Sorry,” Veronica murmurs. She draws her fingers back slightly, but not entirely, and another tingle pulses through Betty’s skin. 

“It's okay,” Betty replies, swallowing around a lump in her throat. She knows what she wants to say next, but part of her is frightened of the words lingering in her throat, frightened to spit them out. 

The other part of her is unfailingly curious and, for the time being, it's this part that wins out. 

“You don't have to move.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.” Once Betty answers, breathing the word like a curse (or maybe a prayer), Veronica shifts closer, until their legs aren’t just brushing; they’re pressed together, from ankle to knee. Her fingers return to their previous position and then move higher, sliding from Betty's elbow to the thin skin of her inner bicep. It's an area Betty doesn't think she's ever been touched on, and the skin is almost _too_ sensitive, almost sensitive enough to make her yank away. Thankfully, Veronica doesn't linger there; she keeps moving, trailing her long fingers to where the strap of Betty's tank top cuts across her shoulder. 

“Still okay?” 

“Yes,” Betty murmurs, although it isn't _entirely_ the truth. Her body feels like it's on fire; she can still feel everywhere Veronica has touched, like her fingers are still there, setting each of Betty's nerves alight. 

Veronica remains quiet, although her toes brush against Betty's ankle and, eventually, she slides her foot over Betty’s entirely. 

“You can keep going,” Betty eventually says, when Veronica shows no sign of budging her fingers from the curve of Betty's shoulder. “Please.” Truthfully, aside from wanting _more_ , she doesn't know what she's asking for. This isn’t something that she’s ever really fantasized about, not in any real detail; for most of her life, it’s only been Archie taking center stage in her mind, and those fantasies followed a very specific pattern, were essentially the same thing over and over again. On the rare occasions that Archie wasn’t the star of her inner mind’s show, on the very few occasions where a girl had come into her mind-

(on the few occasions where she was able to silence the inner voice that sounded exactly like her mother long enough to _allow_ a girl into her mind)

-they were always anonymous, composed of ever-changing facial features that were usually hidden beneath a thick layer of hair or buried between her legs. She didn’t dare to focus on a specific person although, truthfully, there weren’t really any girls in Riverdale that she _wanted_ to focus on. 

She has a feeling that, if things keep going the way they are, the girl in her fantasies might have a very familiar face. 

Veronica’s hand moves again, trails over to the hollow of Betty’s throat, where her pulse is hammering like she’s just finished cheer practice. It feels _intimate_ , almost disarmingly so, and part of her is relieved when Veronica keeps going, rests her palm against Betty’s cheek. 

(The other part of her wishes that Veronica would linger on her pulse point a little longer, wishes that she would press her lips to it.)

Veronica uses her hand to turn Betty’s face towards her. Betty knew that they were close before; they’re touching in a dozen different spots, after all. But she can feel Veronica’s breath brushing against her mouth, and that only makes her hyper-aware of _all_ the spots they’re connected, from where Veronica is still cradling her face to where Veronica’s foot is resting on top of hers. There’s so much skin to skin contact, almost enough to be overwhelming but, simultaneously, it's not nearly enough. 

Betty already feels like she’s going to combust, implode, but she still wants _more_. 

Since Veronica has been the one to initiate every touch so far, Betty decides that it’s her turn, and she leans forward to erase the already minimal space between their mouths. The darkness makes her misjudge at first, and her lips skim over the smooth surface of Veronica’s cheek. Before she can try to readjust, Veronica twists her head and catches Betty’s lips with her own. 

It’s their second kiss, _her_ second kiss, full stop, but it’s the first one that counts, the first one that Betty knows is genuine, isn’t just a ploy to impress Cheryl Blossom. 

This time, she’s prepared to kiss back. 

Veronica’s lips are soft and yielding against hers, and her palm is a warm weight against Betty’s cheek. Betty doesn’t part her lips just yet; she simply savors the contact, savors the taste and texture of Veronica’s mouth against her own. After a moment, Veronica pulls away and gently bumps her nose against Betty’s. 

“Still okay?” she asks softly, sliding her palm into Betty’s hair. 

“Very okay,” Betty responds, nodding enthusiastically, nose sliding against Veronica’s cheek. “Can we keep going?” 

“We can do whatever you want,” Veronica responds. “When you’re ready to stop, we’ll stop.”

At the moment, Betty can’t think of a concrete stopping point, a particular action that she isn’t prepared for. She doesn’t even know what she wants to do, truly, other than kiss Veronica some more. 

She’s totally out of her depth. It should be terrifying, should feel like she’s drowning. She should want to claw her way free. 

She wants to fall further.

She leans in again to find Veronica’s mouth with her own and reaches out, hoping that her hand is going to land on Veronica’s hip and not somewhere else that might wreck the moment. Thankfully, her spatial awareness checks out, and her palm molds to soft curves covered by expensive silk. She tugs gently, working more on instinct than any real knowledge of what to do next, and Veronica rolls on top of her, her legs resting on either side of one of Betty’s. She slides her hand from Veronica’s hip to the small of her back, flattens her palm against her, and Veronica gasps softly against Betty’s mouth. 

The tempo of the music wafting from Veronica’s phone picks up and, in sync, so does Betty’s heartbeat and the movement of their bodies. 

Betty’s ability to think rationally goes up in smoke, replaced by the addicting feeling of Veronica’s skin against her own. Neither of them are wearing a bra underneath their pajamas, and while the feeling of someone else's breasts pressing against hers momentarily takes her off guard, after a few moments, Betty finds herself chasing it, leaning up off the bed when Veronica shifts, just to keep the contact as continuous as possible. Veronica’s hands leave trails of warmth wherever they touch; the movement of their bodies has made Betty’s shirt ride up to the bottom of her ribs, and when Veronica touches her there, flattens her palms on Betty’s stomach with her fingers just touching the lower rungs of her rib cage, Betty has to pull away and gasp for air. 

She tries to return the favor the best she can, even though she is in completely foreign territory. Every time she moves her hands along Veronica’s body, she wants to pull away and ask if it feels good, if _Veronica_ feels good. But since she’s fairly certain that would undoubtedly kill the mood, she settles for keeping at least part of her brain attuned to Veronica’s responses, listening for gasps or moans or sighs of Betty’s name, all of which makes waves of warmth to flood between her legs. 

By the time Veronica ducks her head and presses her mouth to Betty’s throat, right above where her pulse is hammering like a stampede, Betty feels pulled tight as a tripwire. When Veronica gently sucks at the skin, worrying it between her teeth just hard enough to feel, Betty moans and instinctively rolls her hips up, palms sliding down Veronica’s back until her fingers are just barely hovering on the curve of Veronica’s ass. 

When her hips press up, they connect with the firm line of where Veronica’s thigh is pressed between her legs, and a jolt of sweet pressure shoots through Betty’s core. 

It comes as a surprise, and a loud gasp, a sound that she barely recognizes as one of her own, falls from her mouth. Veronica echoes it, and her teeth press into Betty’s neck harder, possibly hard enough to leave a mark. 

Veronica’s mouth edges lower, to where Betty’s collarbone peeks out of the collar of her tank top, and this time, it’s her hips that grind down, causing her thigh to press directly against Betty’s clit. 

“Is that okay?” Veronica asks, mouthing at the base of Betty’s throat. “Too much?” 

“No,” Betty gasps, arching into the solid line of Veronica’s leg again. “Not at all. Please don’t stop.” 

It’s the last thing either of them say for a long time. Exactly how long, Betty can’t say; it’s impossible to tell whether it’s been minutes or hours, if the whole night has passed. Betty’s shirt ends up shoved up to her armpits, and Veronica’s is somewhere on the bed or floor beside them, flicked aside. Veronica’s palm is molded to Betty's breast, thumb gently skirting over her nipple, and even through the layers of their pajamas and underwear, Betty can feel how hot and wet Veronica is when she grinds down against Betty’s thigh. Betty is in much the same state; she feels like she’s burning up, feels almost _dirty_ , the inside of her legs slicked with her own wetness. 

Her orgasm sneaks up on her, starts unfurling in her stomach before it slides down and reaches her core, and by the time she realizes what’s happening, she’s already there, already tipping over the edge, fingers tight on the back of Veronica’s neck, lips parted wide. Veronica presses deep, almost frantic kisses to her open mouth and cheeks, and she doesn’t stop rolling her own hips against Betty’s leg. It takes a few moments for Betty to get her voice back, to remember how to speak, but she wants to help Veronica, wants to make her feel good in any way she can. 

“I want to touch you,” she pants, still trying to catch her breath as she raises her hand and settles it on Veronica’s shoulder. “Where do you want me to?” Veronica doesn’t answer verbally, but she takes Betty’s hand and settles it on the the swell of her breast, holds it there. Betty curls her fingers slightly, not tight enough to be considered a squeeze, and Veronica sighs, the sound close to Betty’s ear. 

“Harder,” she murmurs. Betty does as she’s asked and, after a second of hesitation, she places her other palm on Veronica’s other breast, brushes her thumb against Veronica’s peaked nipple. This time, Veronica actually curses and drops her forehead against Betty’s as her hips stutter against Betty’s thigh. Betty slides one hand through Veronica’s thick hair to the base of her neck and simply lets her hand rest there while Veronica comes down, catches her breath. Eventually, they fall into kissing again, mostly closed-mouth in between breaths, and at some point, Betty starts laughing softly, unable to help herself. 

Thankfully, before she can apologize, Veronica joins in as well, giggles slipping from her lips in between kisses. 

By the time they stop laughing, Betty is breathless all over again.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” she admits, smoothing her hand from the nape of Veronica’s neck down her back. They aren’t words that she enjoys saying, that she’s ever felt comfortable saying, but it feels _safe_ to admit it to Veronica, to admit that she’s totally in over her head. 

“We’ll figure it out,” Veronica says. “We don’t have to worry about it tonight. For now, we just have to worry about getting cleaned up and trying to sleep in this gothic nightmare of a house.” She makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world, like they’ll just wake up tomorrow and know exactly what they are, where they’re going to go from here, how they’re going to present themselves to the world.

Betty can only hope that it’ll be that simple. 

“Okay,” she murmurs, bumping her nose against Veronica’s and pressing one last kiss against her soft mouth. “Tomorrow, then.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
